


In Trutina

by ellejaymac



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellejaymac/pseuds/ellejaymac
Summary: Post-Armageddon't - Crowley and Aziraphale go to a concert.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	In Trutina

**Author's Note:**

> In trutina  
> In trutina mentis dubia  
> fluctuant contraria  
> lascivus amor et pudicitia.  
> Sed eligo quod video,  
> collum iugo prebeo;  
> ad iugum tamen suave transeo. 
> 
> In the wavering balance of my feelings  
> set against each other  
> lascivious love and modesty.  
> But I choose what I see,  
> and submit my neck to the yoke;  
> I yield to the sweet yoke.

“Oh, come on Angel. You cannot be serious.”

“What’s wrong with Carmina Burana?”

“What’s right with it?” muttered Crowley sardonically, earning himself a stern look from Aziraphale.

“Have you ever even heard it?”

“I heard it performed by a Surrey choral society once.” (Amateur choirs doing music that was far too hard for them was something that Aziraphale had accused Crowley of having a hand in in the past.) “Once was more than enough. No, Angel, you can’t make me.” 

“Crowley…”

“Come on, why can’t we just drink a few bottles of chateauneuf in your back room?”

Aziraphale struggled at first to give an answer to that. It wasn’t that he didn’t have one, he had several. But he had no idea how to tell the demon that since Armageddon’t, the lack of tangible obstacles to their being together had only thrown up more imagined emotional obstacles. These days, Aziraphale found himself struggling to know what to say to Crowley. His mind teemed with a million possible ways to nudge their relationship over the edge, but he could never quite bring himself to commit to one. Instead, whenever Crowley came round to drink, Aziraphale spent most of his time imagining the sort of conversations he’d rather be having with Crowley (and indeed, what he’d rather they were doing). These distractions didn’t make for riveting conversation.

“Because I bought these tickets months ago. Stop being silly, it’s at the Royal Albert Hall, all the musicians are professionals. Anyway, it’s a 12th century ode to the party lifestyle - surely that’s right up your street?”

Crowley still didn’t look entirely convinced.

Aziraphale sighed dramatically. “Oh alright. I’ll go on my own. Seems a shame to waste a box seat, but what’s to be done when your friends don’t appreciate good music...?” He watched Crowley carefully as he said this.

“Oh for Satan’s sake angel, fine! Fine, I’ll come, but only because the wine they serve in the intervals is better than what I’ve got in my fridge.” Crowley scowled.

Aziraphale beamed at Crowley, feeling more than a little smug but hiding it well. “Wonderful! It starts at half seven, but we should get there by seven to pick up the tickets and get through the cloakroom queue.

Crowley groaned.

\--

Predictably enough, Crowley was very much enjoying Carmina Burana. 

He would never have come out and said it, but Aziraphale could tell from the way he tapped his long fingers along with the percussion in the energetic parts, and leaned forward expectantly in his seat during the mushier moments.

At the interval they went to the bar in the foyer, and ‘miraculously’ managed to find a spot where there wasn’t a queue. Aziraphale ordered two large glasses of red, and as they sipped, he prodded at Crowley for an acknowledgement that he was enjoying himself.

“It’s an improvement on the last one.” He conceded grudgingly.

“You certainly seemed to enjoy the drinking song.” Aziraphale goaded gently. Crowley had positively bobbed in his seat at that bit.

“I like drinking, what can I say?” Crowley said, raising his glass to his lips and, as if to prove the truth of his statement, draining it in one gulp. He ordered another two large glasses of red wine, and Aziraphale drank his original glass slightly more quickly so that none would go to waste. “What’s coming up in this bit?” Crowley asked as he took the new glasses from the bartender. 

“Part three is the one about sex.” 

Crowley spluttered, as his sip of wine went down the wrong way.

“The what?”

“Yes, the young maid is betrothed to her lover and wrestles with her physical desire for him.” Aziraphale could feel himself blushing and silently cursed his blasted corporation. “It ends with their...consummation.”

“How did I miss that last time?”

“No doubt you were up to no good…” Aziraphale said, looking away and taking another large sip of wine to hide his embarrassment.

Crowley was thumbing through his programme to find the translations for the rest of the piece. Aziraphale was surprised the demon couldn’t just translate the latin as he listened, but he supposed that perhaps Crowley was a bit out of practice. It had been a long time since either of them had needed Latin in the course of their jobs.

“This is filthy, Angel!”

“Oh hardly!”

“For 12th century monks, I would say so.”

At that moment, the bell rang to indicate that they should return to their seats. Aziraphale drained his glass, and picked up the second one to take with him into their box.

-

It had been going so well until about five minutes after Aziraphale had finished the second large glass of wine. 

This had coincided nicely with the start of ‘In Trutina’.

Aziraphale was very aware of Crowley sitting next to him. He had realised very early on in the evening, that this was the most physical proximity they had had since the bus journey home from the apoca-wasn’t. Though he had been resisting the urge to take Crowley’s hand again as he had that night, he couldn’t resist turning slightly to watch Crowley, as they listened together to the moment where the maiden gives herself over to her desire. Yields to the "Sweet yoke".

Aziraphale could trace Crowley’s outline in the seat next to him. He seemed enraptured by the soprano on the stage. Under normal circumstances Aziraphale would have been too. She was really very good. But just in that moment, she was nothing but a convenient soundtrack to the swell of feelings that was threatening to sweep him out to sea. 

He looked at the edges of Crowley’s dark hair, dimly lit by the reflections from the stage lights. It highlighted the unusual redness of his locks, so that the ends almost glowed like a fire in the darkness. His brow was perfectly relaxed, with not a wrinkle of scorn or amusement.  
He had removed his glasses for once, and his serpentine eyes seemed to Aziraphale like deep pools of molten gold. They were wide in wonder, drinking in the concert. Aziraphale fancied that he could see the singer dimly reflected in them, and felt a sudden need to see himself in their depths. 

Crowley’s left cheekbone stood out in the low light, with a dim hollow beneath it, and Aziraphale noticed a small, faded scar near where his cheekbone joined his ear. His eyes traced the demon’s strong jawline down to his defined chin, which hung a little lower than usual, as Crowley had gone slightly slack-jawed while he listened. Aziraphale could hear his breath flowing past his parted lips, and wondered what those lips would feel like against his own. He was surprised to notice himself leaning in towards Crowley, who was still enraptured by the singer and hadn’t noticed Aziraphale staring at him. Perhaps it was the low light in the hall, or the wine they had quaffed during the interval, but in this moment, Aziraphale was not afraid. He slowly extended his arm, and let his right hand rest on Crowley’s left arm, waking the demon from his reveries. 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s hand with a puzzled expression, before looking up and at his face. He still wore the slightly glazed over look he’d gotten watching the singer. Aziraphale felt immense gratification at seeing his reflection in Crowley’s eyes, exactly as he’d wanted. But it wasn’t quite enough gratification for Aziraphale, renowned savourer of all things gratifying. The angel raised his hands to Crowley’s lapels and pulled the demon nearer until their foreheads touched and they were breathing the same air. 

“May I?” Aziraphale asked in a barely audible whisper. He was always considerate of fellow audience members in a concert hall

“Ngk” said Crowley.

Aziraphale had learned in 6000 years that “Ngk” was Crowley-speak for “Yes.” 

He gently pressed their lips together. As he did so, he felt a wonderful warmth spread through his chest, where his heart was beating so hard he could have sworn it was trying to make a bid for freedom. He wouldn’t blame it, after the millenia he had kept it locked away. But no more. His knuckles tightened on the demon’s lapels, and he had to exercise a great deal of restraint to avoid simply thrusting his tongue as far down Crowley’s throat as he could, like some horny teenager having his first proper snog. Crowley twisted slightly in his seat so he could place a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. 

Just at that moment, the next movement started with a crash of cymbals and timpani. Crowley leapt in surprise, headbutting Aziraphale in the process. “Sorry Angel, sorry, sorry!” he whispered forcefully, as Aziraphale covered his aching head with his hands. Despite the pain, Aziraphale couldn’t help laughing, and they were both very soon shaking with barely suppressed giggles. An usher came to the door of their box, and frowned disapprovingly at their mirth. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and led him (both still giggling) past the usher and down the stairs to the foyer, then on to the street. 

By the time they made it outside, their giggles had subsided, and Crowley had now regained enough of himself to be confused. “Angel, what was…” he began, but before he could finish his question, Aziraphale turned on his heels and kissed him again. This kiss was less chaste than the one they had shared in the hall, and the feeling of their tongues sliding against each other made Crowley’s already far too flexible knees turn mysteriously to jelly. 

“Wow” he said, as they broke apart, both gasping for air that neither of them really needed.

“I am terribly sorry that I’ve made you wait so long my dear, but nothing to be done about that now. Can we save the long talk for the morning? Only I have so much more I want to do with you, and frankly, I don’t think it can wait.”

“Ngk” replied Crowley

“There’s a good fellow.” Aziraphale smiled, turning and pulling Crowley by the hand to where the Bentley waited nearby.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I wrote any fanfic, and this is my first ineffable husbands. Please be gentle!


End file.
